


The Last Act of Repudiation

by mr_mercutio



Series: Last Act Universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_mercutio/pseuds/mr_mercutio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the end of the world in the Ministry for Magic, and the only one left to see its fall is Dolores Umbridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Act of Repudiation

There is a smell that has been slowly taking over the Ministry ever since the announcement, something musty and dank that won't go away no matter how many cleaning charms and breeze spells are thrown about. For the first few weeks – the time that people were still trying to fix everything – there had been an effort to keep the pervasiveness of the stench to a minimum, enough that people could still work, but once everyone but the Granger girl gave up no one seemed to care enough anymore. By the time the stink became fully entrenched in the floors and walls, everyone had finally given up on the Ministry anyway, and there was no one left.

No one except Dolores, of course. 

She strolls calmly through the deserted corridors, stepping around the piles of excess parchment that started to accumulate after the filing charms failed. Even now a few sheets half-heartedly try to fold themselves up and fly away, only ever managing at best to make a few folds before collapsing back into the heap. The smell doesn't bother her anymore, not much at any rate, and it has been nice to have the Ministry all to herself. 

Humming a little to herself, she sips from her cup of tea, the last of the Earl Grey she's been hoarding in the kitchen for this last hour. The steam that wafts up from it brushes away the stink of the hall for just a brief moment, and she breathes it in deeply as she makes for the stairs.

As she descends into the bowels of the Ministry, she imagines that she can hear a voice echoing from below her, calling out the time left. She knows, of course, that it must only be her imagination, since everyone else abandoned the place ages before, but it is comforting to pretend that someone still wants Dolores to be kept in the know. It's been ages since another person even spoke to her, and if it weren't for her kittens she might have forgotten how to talk to anyone at all. Surprisingly the magic in the paintings of the cats hasn't faltered even a bit, and her babies still gambol and prance for her attention every time she walks into her office.

Finally she reaches the absolute bottom of the stairwell and stops to catch her breath. She wishes she could have taken the lift down, but they've been acting up far too much lately, and after spending five hours trapped in one the week before, she is more than willing to risk a little exhaustion by taking the stairs. After a few moments of rest she pulls herself together and prepares to nudge the door open with her shoulder, cradling the precious cup of tea in her hands.

"Department of Mysteries," chimes a warped, droning voice. Dolores jumps a little, almost losing her grip on the cup. She'd thought all the announcement charms had given out over a month before, and this one certainly hadn't spoken up any other time she'd come through this door. Any ideas she'd had of a human voice being comforting are now squashed by the flat tones of the disembodied voice. 

When she recovers her composure she thrusts her way through the door, and the stench hits her again in a renewed wave, the strongest it has ever been. She keeps the steaming tea close to her nose as she wills herself not to vomit, to push this unpleasantness down into the same place as all the other distasteful memories and sensations. It does not take long before she comes to her office. 

During that period of frenzied activity when the Ministry was searching for a way to save the world, Dolores had been forced to retreat further and further into the forgotten recesses of the building to avoid running into anyone who might decide to take their frustrations out on a known collaborator. Eventually she had been forced into the one place in the Ministry no one else wanted to go, and there she had entrenched herself, set up her desk and her precious babies, gathered her remaining resources and determined to wait out the end of the world. 

She moves to sit down at her desk, but then stops. Her kittens desperately clamour for her attention, but she ignores them, setting her cup down and approaching the veiled doorway in the center of her office. The stench grows ever more powerful as she draws near the veil, and it slowly dawns upon her that it is coming _from_ the veil, or at least from behind it. 

In all the time that she has kept this room as her own, she has never had the courage to come this close to the arch. From time to time she has heard whispers coming from it, calling or crying for something that she just cannot quite make out, but she has always steeled herself against them. Now though, as she reaches out a hand to the tattered black curtain, the voices have coalesced into a single clear call, perfectly understandable but sounding as though coming from a great distance.

"Five more minutes!"

Dolores knows that she recognizes this voice but cannot quite place it. It puts her in mind of her days up at Hogwarts, but the identity of the shouting woman remains just beyond her memory. She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and takes out the tiny Muggle-designed watch, seeing that yes, the voice was right, and only five minutes remained until midnight. 

Her hand trembles as it brushes against the curtain. She'd never expected that it would feel so soft, almost like what she imagines a cloud might feel like, and she has to suppress the urge to clutch it in bundles to rub against her cheek. Through the tattered holes in the fabric she catches glimpses of people, people she knows she has met before. They seem impossibly to be everywhere, images laid atop one another as they cry and rage and love, looking toward the sky as it grows white hot. The woman's voice continues to call out the dwindling minutes, a desperate elation filling the corners of the world as it seems almost to thrum like a heartbeat, the veil fluttering in its rhythm. 

For the briefest of moments she can feel the heat of the sun on her hands and face, gleaming white through the ripped veil, and she knows if she were to pass through she could look up at the sky like everyone else and pray for the same miracle they desperately wish for. It would be as simple as walking through a door. 

Dolores purses her lips and seizes the curtain in both hands, and with a quick tug she tears it from the arch. The voice dies away, as does the stench, and nothing lies beyond the veil but an empty archway. 

"That's better," she whispers.

She turns her back on the arch and returns to her desk, settling into the plush chair she appropriated from Yaxley's old office. Now the only thing she can smell is the pleasing aroma of her tea, wafting out of the pristine porcelain cup. She brushes her fingers against the surface of one of her plates, imagining she can feel the beautiful fur of the purring kitten that rubs its head toward her hand. A brief moment passes and then she takes the tea and slowly drinks the rest of it down. When she sets the cup aside, she does not look at the leaves.

"Much better," she announces to her kittens, and then she leans back, folds her hands in her lap, and waits.


End file.
